Category Archives: Notes from the Southwest Corner

A Tenting We Will Go

This was begun yesterday just after noon. It was interrupted when the tenting and fumigation team arrived. It went downhill from there.

No, no: we are not going camping. i was never big on that, and my wife, after backpacking through Europe for three summers after high school has sworn she will never travel where she will have to spend a night without a ceramic toilet.

They could be here in a minute, with the early end of their window as noon, and the late end of their window as 2:00 p.m.

i’m betting close to or after the later time.

i will have participated or been subject to this process three times by the time this is over sometime this weekend. i don’t hate many things, but i hated the first two times of this process. i hate this one even more.

i don’t remember anywhere but here in the Southwest corner seeing this. Perhaps that is because this process was not available when i was growing up in Lebanon, and in the other 19 places i have lived, i was probably not there long enough to see it happen.

The process is called, technically “fumigation.” We call it “tenting.” It doesn’t have a thing to do with camping out. And “tenting” definitely is not referring to a good time.

It seems innocent enough. These guys pull up in their trucks. We leave. They put a circus looking tent over the house, seal it from outside air, then pump this god-awful gas crap inside to kill everything, termites and all, and i mean everything.

It ain’t simple.

First, there is the prep work and consultation. This takes about three months with an uncountable number of  phone calls, almost as many meetings, and oh, about ten years out of your life. This does not count the local treatment sessions you have been enduring about a half-dozen times a year for the past three or four years (hoping you can avoid “tenting”). You have to clear the sides of the house of any plants by eighteen inches. Then, you have to take indoor plants, pets, and humans (unless it is someone you really don’t like) someplace else for at least four days. Next, any foodstuffs or other liquids and about twenty thousand other specified objects must be removed and stored somewhere other than inside the house. If you leave any foodstuffs in the house, you must double bag and seal them. Now i have learned this list of things to remove grows exponentially when women, i.e. my wife and daughter, make the list because they are super cautious, which i guess, is a good thing but a pain in the…oh, i almost forgot myself there. And then you leave, worried about what the tenters are going to kill in spite of your best efforts, how many of the Spanish roof tiles they are going to break, hoping beyond hope you haven’t left anything inside that should not be there, and worrying about thieves breaking in and stealing what you did leave inside (this has become a new but fairly common occurrence in the Southwest corner: damned low life).

Oh yeh, then you have to find some place to stay for two nights. Sarah and her dog are staying with one of her friends. Our cats are being boarded by our vet. We are staying with our friends whom we will never be able to thank enough for taking care of us on many occasions: Pete and Nancy Toennies. There were a few moments after i foolishly offered to sleep in the front yard to ensure those criminals did not invade the house i actually thought Maureen might see as reasonable.

Friday, the tent comes off, and we can tentatively, cautiously reenter. But oh, oh, it’s not done yet. We must retrieve the pets. Then, we must start moving all that stuff back to our house. This time we elected to take up the offer of our neighbor’s across the street, Spud and Vonda Mumby, who graciously offered us space in their garage, including things for inside the refrigerator out there. i figure moving all of that stuff back and putting it in its proper place, perhaps a new more desired location will take about a year. And of course, we need to move back all of the things we moved at least eighteen inches away from the house. Whew.

But, now you have to assess damages. The roof tile guys are standing by. i’m guessing this whole thing will be behind us by Christmas.

Termites. i hate them. Three times they have required us to tent. i hate them more each time. i also hate them as i take routine inspections of the house and garage looking for their droppings from eating away my house. Gross. Always a threat. i hate termites. i do not know what useful function they serve in this environmental system. Hate ’em.

So, i’m sitting here waiting for the tenters to show up, wondering if they prefer to be called tenters or fumigators. They have another half-hour to be inside their window. Since i am starving, i’m guessing they won’t make it until later, about supper time.

i have started a poem here below. i may finish it before they get here.

the evil hoards wait in the canyons
hiding, building up their strength
to swarm upwards, penetrating our peace,
our home…

Well. the boys got here. Big open bay truck with rolls and rolls of tenting material. Hidalgo, whose name means of noble birth, which i might have named a son had i known the translation and had a son, and a great movie about a horse of that name, takes a tour around the house with us in tow. He is extremely complimentary of all of our preps. We reach the end of our tour where a fence extends from our house to the end of our property and then right angles back to a concrete block pillar and beyond.

“Hollow,” Hidalgo nods knowingly as he smacks it with the bottom of his fist, “Hollow,” he repeats. Then he explains “Ag” requires there not be an escape for something as i imagined a gazillion termites swarming out of the house through this five foot tall five-inch wide stucco fence. Maureen knew better and later explained escaping gas was the concern, and i finally understood because this stuff would have won World War I had the other side had it in their possession (and wiped out possibly millions of the good guys). “Ag” i believe stands for Agriculture and is a government agency of some power from some branch of the local, state, federal governments or possibly the United Nations in the termite business. They send out an inspector to ensure tenting meets their requirements before the killer gas is allowed to be pumped in our house.

Maureen objects, noting we’ve gone through this ordeal twice before and they simply taped the tenting around the fence to ensure it didn’t escape. Well apparently, some good ole well-intentioned Ag decided this procedure was flawed.

Having worked with government agencies before and therefore knowing there was no way in hell the Ag’s would ever waiver from this requirement, i fearfully asked Hidalgo what could we do.

His answer: cut a gap in the fence near the house where they could take the tent to the ground. By this time, it was about 2:45. i am thinking i could do it with my chain saw, but being realistic for a change, i realize this would take me about two days, and i really didn’t want this to last any longer than scheduled. After all, i hate termites.

i again asked Hidalgo what we could do, and he told me, they had to tent back to something solid, like the concrete block pillar. i become optimistic, and show Hidalgo how this might be done. But he pointed out the fence keeps going straight on my neighbor’s property and that would be an escape route for the gas. i counter. The gate is hinged on a four-inch steel piece that runs from the top to the bottom of the fence. Hidalgo concurs but then points to the small bushes and trees hugging the fence on the neighbor’s side of the fence.

“Hey, no problem,” i say, “i can cut them down and clear eighteen inches,” noting, “i’m sure Regina would be okay with that.”

Hidalgo, “We have to have her permission.”

me: “But she’s not home.”

Hidalgo: “We have to have her permission.”

Somewhere in this exchange because Hidalgo’s English is not real good, Willie of the team joined the three of us and there has been a running phone conversation with their supervisor.

me: “Well, i can call her and she will tell you it’s okay.” Then i yell for Maureen to call Vonda to get Regina’s phone number because we lost her number. Maureen efficiently goes about her business and is calling Vonda.

While all of this is going on, one of the five tenters is standing in our front yard and a very large bumble bee takes a liking to him and begins dive bombing his head. So in the middle of this discussion, this guy is running all over the neighborhood, swinging his long-sleeved shirt around him in a fruitless effort to ward off the bee while the other tenters are laughing hysterically at the comic scene.

Willie: “It has to be written approval.”

me: “Isn’t there some way we can get around that? Can i talk to your boss or call the Ag guys and talk some sense into them?”

Willie: “Won’t do no good.”

i knew he was right but wanted to try. “You know, i’m pretty good at that kind of thing.”

Willie sort of shakes his head knowingly.

Maureen then informs us she has talked to neighbor Regina who is on the way home. The bee attack continues with accompanying raucous laughter. i ask the two tenters if i wrote up an approval for Regina to sign, would that be good enough. Willie informs me that it takes a certain form. The tenters, of course, don’t have a blank form in the truck. The boss has it at the office.

We discuss how long it would take for me to get some one more capable (and younger) than me to create the gap. Hidalgo informs me if we could effect the cut or have Regina’s written approval and clear the plants by the next morning, they could tent then and we could return to our home sometime Saturday.

i am resigned, sadly.

The boss calls.

Willie: “They are sending out someone to cut the gap and we will restore the fence after the tenting.”

i am as close to being the happiest man in the world who has ever gone through the tenting process, which really is not all that happy.

Hidalgo: “We can start tenting now and finish when the gap is cut tonight. So  we will call you around noon Friday to let you know it’s okay to come back.”

Hurray.

i thought we were through. But then Regina pulls into her driveway anxious to help us and sign the non-existing approval form. The explanations including the whys follow.

At last the ordeal is over…almost.

We had Nancy’s wonderful spaghetti dinner last night. Pete and i played golf early this morning. We will have supper tonight at a new Coronado restaurant. After golf, i drove home to check out the tenting. They did a good job. i think. It does look like we are having a circus inside.

So it is working out well…until we start the moving back in process tomorrow.

To hell with the poem. i hate termites, even dead ones.

A Football Record and a Typo

This column ran in The Lebanon Democrat, October 20, 2015. It remains one of my favorite stories.

SAN DIEGO – If this story has been told here before, I apologize, but if it was here, it appeared a long time ago, and my filing system, such as it is, shows no mention.

Over a decade ago, my friend Jimmy Gamble sent me a letter containing an old sports article. I scanned the story and emailed it to a number of people. Marty Linville, one of my Friday morning golf buddies, responded. Marty, who played football at Pittsburg State in Kansas (the Gorillas won the NCAA Division II championship in 2011, added a play-by-play description of one touchdown. I believe that email exchange is the only time I wrote about this incident.

Regardless, it is a great story and good for my ego.

Jimmy Gamble, who sent the original letter is now retired from the defense industry and lives in Huntsville. He became my close friend when his family moved to Lebanon in 1956. His father Barney became one of the most respected and longest termed principals in Lebanon.

Jimmy and I played football and basketball together from our first year at Lebanon Junior High School until graduating from Castle Heights in 1962. We went to church together and ran around town in his used Renault Dauphine, one of the earliest models. In our final years at Heights, Jimmy and I dreamed of getting football scholarships to Michigan together. Of course, it was a pipe dream. Jimmy and I played our last football with the 1962 Mid-South Champion Tigers.

There were some low spots in the middle, but we started and finished on high notes. Our first team’s success is well documented. The 1956 Lebanon Junior High Colts ran the table for an 8-0 season in 1956 when Jimmy and I were subs and seventh graders.

We finished on the 1961 Mid-South champion Castle Heights Tigers, with a 6-2 record. One of those losses was 6-0 to Furman (Va.) Junior College, ranked the number four junior college in the country.

One of our successful seasons has been mostly overlooked. In our eighth grade year, the Colts posted a 7-1 record with a lone loss to Pulaski. That game was the first football contest we lost, the only one in our two years of junior high school. I don’t remember the score, but I do remember being devastated. I didn’t think it was possible to lose until then. I cried on the way back to our dressing room.

Jimmy’s letter included a clipping that made the loss, almost a half-century earlier, less painful. The Democrat article described our Colts win over Shelbyville, 27-6. The game was played on a Thursday evening at Alumni Memorial Field, now the site of Sellars Funeral Home that was Lebanon High’s home field until the school moved across town to Harding Drive.

That game was a high point for me. I scored my only touchdown in six years of playing organized football. I remember my feelings quite well. I was excited but sad because my father was in Atlanta at a Pontiac meeting and missed it. Little did I realize, he would never get the opportunity to see me score again (Ironically five years later at Heights, my mother missed the only home run I hit, and my father told her it made them even).

But the article Jimmy sent revealed I had not only scored a touchdown, I set a record for yards covered on a punt return for a score, at any level of the sport.

After describing how Shelbyville scored on a “Statue of Liberty” play towards the end of the first half to narrow our lead to 13-6, the narration captures my record run:

“Early in the second half, Shelbyville punted and Jimmy Jewell returned the kick 447 yards to a touchdown.”

No one, no one, I boast, has ever run FOUR HUNDRED AND FORTY SEVEN yards on a punt return except me. My friend Marty described the run as a twisting, cutting back, reversing the field, slashing, stiff-arming run of Homeric proportion.

Alas, I must confess, the Democrat had a slip up. The “447” yards described as my zenith in any sport was the product of a typo. An extra four had slipped from the linotype machine. My record was not a record. My only touchdown was only a 47-yard return, good but certainly not heroic.

First Row: Bobby Buhler, Russell Witt, Don Shipper, Buddy Phillips, Jim Jewell, Jim Gamble, Bill Cowan, LeRoy Dowdy, Eddie Dedman, Jimmy Majors; Second Row: John Bradley, Bobby Byrd, Fred Andrews, Jimmy Patterson, Billy Jennings, Rob Eatherly, Paul Thomas, Jimmy Wright, Jimmy Mitchell; Third Row: Sam Moore, Mike Gannaway, Henry Harding, John Walker, assistant coach Miles McMillan, Townley Johnson, Malcolm Metcalf, Fred Croslin.

 

Reflections

i am experimenting with a new whateveryoucallit system, hoping it will make the posts better for you. But i remain technology challenged. So i hope it works. If not, i will once again call upon my friend, the multi-media astonishingly great Walker Hicks to help.

i also have been reticent to post much of anything here lately. i could blame it on a number of things, but to be honest, i just haven’t quite felt like it. Oh, i’ve been doing some writing, but it has been it struck me to do so, not because i have had to write. 

So as i try to move forward and get my stuff in order, again and again and again as The Highwaymen once sang, i decided to post this old one.

i don’t know where i actually posted this. It was a while ago. It may have been a long lost post. It could be, and i move in this direction, a Democrat column. but i don’t know and am not really interested in finding out. i just stumbled across it tonight. It struck some chords.

i don’t know why but John Kennedy’s assassination kept coming up in my mind tonight. It was just over a month and 55 years ago. A long time. It reminded me of Nashville and Vanderbilt where, when walking back from class (yeh, i actually attended most of my classes, believe it or not) Winston Churchill’s nephew Charlie, a distinguished chap, came out of the Beta house and asked me and several others if we had heard the President had been shot. Kennedy had been shot and i gathered with the other Kappa Sigma brothers around the radio and listened until the news folks reported he was dead. Stunned. In disbelief.

And somehow, that terrible moment in time put me in tune with the below post or column or whatever it was. This was written several years ago.

So i share:

Dirt, Rain

It is always, always nostalgic for me when I visit home as I have this week (hence, no San Diego dateline).

Thursday when I drove up the hill of Castle Heights Avenue, nostalgia whacked me in the face with a flat-bladed shovel.

McFadden Auditorium was gone. Tilled brown dirt covered the lot where the old regal edifice had dominated the skyline since 1941. McFadden always comes to my mind when I hear a school sing the lines in their alma mater:

“On the city’s western border,
“Reared against the sky
“Proudly stands our Alma Mater
“As the years roll by.”

The tune I associate with alma maters came from the 1857 big hit, “Annie Lisle.” Written by H.S. Thompson of Boston, the lyrics were far from inspirational, telling of the demise of a young damsel, presumably of tuberculosis, or consumption as it was called back then. Yet the tune was picked up by scores of high schools and colleges for their alma mater.

The most familiar lyrics were originally written for Vanderbilt in 1907 by Robert H. Vaughn, but I have heard those lyrics adapted for schools across the country, including my daughter’s high school, Bonita Vista, in the Southwest corner.

But when I hear those words, I think of McFadden Auditorium reared against the sky.

No more.

On my drive, I turned down Hill Street to be face-whacked by that nostalgia shovel again. More dirt and even a few houses had taken over the old Heights drill field. Although I missed most drill periods for athletics, the freshman and junior varsity football practice fields were part of the freshly tilled dirt as well.

Thus far, the baseball diamond and football practice field have been spared from development mania, but there are large bushes occupying the former location of the visitors’ dugout, and the bushes and  on the south end of the old field have extended to where home run distance to fenceless center field now would be about 300 feet, not forever like back when the Tigers were swinging away.

Whack, whack went the nostalgia shovel.

Some of the best moments of my life were spent on that football practice field and baseball diamond long, long ago.

The next day, I drove to Vanderbilt to explore some possibilities I have had in mind for some time. The next shovel whack came when I tried to park. In my two-plus years there, cars were few and far between. A number of upper class-men had cars, but that was about it.

Thinking plentiful parking would be next to the stadium, I drove to the west end of the campus. No spaces. I finally parked in Centennial Park and walked across West End to the campus.

I believe Vanderbilt has shrunk over the last fifty years. I do not know if it’s the newer buildings, the additions and design pleasing modifications to old ones, or the trees have grown that much, but everything seems more compact than in 1962. Yep. Another whack of nostalgia.

Of course, I did not take a campus map, and recalling where to go and how to get there was complicated by faulty memory and new obstacles. I eventually succeeded and accomplished my mission, but I observed the changes in detail.

Perhaps the most obvious change was dress. The uniformity of madras shirt, khaki pants, and weejun loafers for males, and skirts and blouses for females had been replaced by another uniform approach: shorts, tee shirts, and flip flops.

Returning to my car before noon, I walked by a fraternity house just I had done 46 years and ten months ago. It was like reliving a dream. That day many years ago, a student was standing at the door of the fraternity house shouting, “Kennedy’s been shot. It’s on the news. The president’s been shot.”

Friday, the fraternity house was fenced in, undergoing refurbishment. Whack went that old nostalgia shovel one more time.

But in my meanderings through the first half of my visit, I felt the late summer rain on Thursday morning, I smelled the grass as I walked through Centennial Park and Don Fox Community Park, and I talked to people who were just as friendly and concerned as they were those years ago. There is a difference between those things here and in the Southwest corner. But there also are ca lot of things alike in both places.

Some things never change, and that is a good thing.

SW Notes 011: Times of Change

i wrote this for The Lebanon Democrat on the last day of 2007. It was my eleventh column for that successful and long lasting local paper.

i chuckled when i read it before posting today. Change definitely continues, even the places and people i wrote about then have gone through many changes, including me.

The troika of couples, Henry and Brenda, Eddie and Brenda, and Maureen and i are still intact. The restaurant at the Heights’ superintendent’s home has changed hands several times.  i don’t know if Joe’s and my photos are still in the opposite corners of the south side dining area. Even the predictions about today in 2007 would make us laugh. The Southwest corner continues to grow amok. Lebanon, i’m sure, has also continued to grow and change. And unfortunately, my trips back to Lebanon have decreased significantly as i knew they would when my parents passed away.

But you know what? i’ve lived in the Southwest corner continuously for thirty-three years, it is our home.

But Lebanon will always be my home.

Tennessee in general and Lebanon in particular is not only a Christmas escape for me; it is a place to reflect on change. This year, the change, past, present, and future, seems more palpable.

Often, we refuse to accept change as inevitable. We spend post-Christmas creating New Year Resolutions, which we usually blow off in a week or so.

Just before Christmas, my wife and I shared a dinner at the Chop House with special folks. Change joined us for the evening.

Growing up, I spent almost as much time at the home of Henry Harding; his maternal grandparents, J. J. and Maude Arnold; and his parents, George and Virginia Harding, as I did at my own home. Henry remains my “best” friend. He and his wife Brenda joined us.

The couple’s troika was completed by Eddie and Brenda Callis. Eddie has been a close friend since we met in high school as sports competitors from Castle Heights and Lebanon High School. Brenda’s father, Jim Horn Hankins, recruited my father to work for at Hankins and Smith Motor Company in 1939, and they became partners in the late 1950’s. So Brenda and I have known each other pretty much all of our lives.

We spoke of families, children, grandchildren, and parents. We spoke of friends. We spoke of adventures growing up and shared stories of places we have been.

Essentially we talked about change.

We talked amidst change itself. My sister, Martha Duff, had played in this structure, now the Chop House, with her friend Kay Lucas, when it was the Castle Heights superintendent’s home, and Ralph Lucas served in that position.

Down the road, my mother played with the son of the original occupants of the Mitchell House, which Danny Evins so graciously renovated for Cracker Barrel’s headquarters. Further down on the original Castle Heights Avenue is the house my parents bought in 1942 when it was one of only two or three houses on the street and where they lived for sixty-one years.

On the dining area wall hung a picture of my brother, Joe, attired in a Heights jersey. A photo of me at the 1962 graduation dance hung in the opposite quarter. The placement was appropriate. Joe and I always seem to end up in opposite corners even in choice of homes: Joe in Vermont, me in the Southwest corner. We often reflect on how we have managed change differently.

At my age, change seems more important. I long for what used to be, overlooking the negative aspects of the past. The past seems more poignant. The need to share memories with my family, especially the new grandson, is strong.

Change is never what we expect it to be. The 1950’s predictions for the next century are comical looking at them from this end. Sometimes change is better than expected. Sometimes change is worse.

Growth, i.e. change, in Middle Tennessee is small compared to San Diego. A community of 100,000 has grown up about three miles south of our home since a large ranch estate was settled in 1995. The expansion of developments may soon extend to the Cleveland National Forest to the east.

The increase in population has produced traffic congestion. Water supply is more tenuous than ever. Utility rates have risen dramatically. Housing costs are astronomical. Politics has become more profitable and more divisive.

The plus side is convenience in shopping and dining. The developments are rife with parks, walking trails, nearby modern schools, and an increase in services.

When I see change in Lebanon, I winch with concern it may drive away many of the things in Lebanon I hold dear. However, it seems to me Lebanon has managed change pretty well since I left for the Navy in 1967. Good change without destruction of the past appears to have been the rule.

Dining with my life-long friends, it occurred to me they (and you folks who live here) have permanent connection to the past, which might explain the change management of the community. The sense of community is not strong in the Southwest corner. Change seems more precocious, more uncontrollable there.

Before this article is published, I will be back in the Southwest corner, attempting to manage change positively. If all goes well, I will return to Middle Tennessee several times in the next twelve months and find change continues to be positive here.

It’s a nice place to come home to. I hope that never changes.

SW Notes 012: Why Navy?

i have probably posted this before, but i don’t care. How i ended up with a Navy career still amazes me. Since i realized i was not going to be a sports star or even extend my sports past high school, i wanted to be a writer. The Navy was a choice for the matter of convenience. But looking back, it was a wonderful choice and shaped my life. i am proud of my choice. So here it is again.

SAN DIEGO – As the new year ramps up, I am back in the Southwest corner considering why I made the Navy my career.

My father also has wondered why a boy from Middle Tennessee would choose the sea for his livelihood. Others have wondered the same thing.

The sea called me during my midshipman cruise on the U.S.S. Lloyd Thomas (DD 764) in 1963. We steamed from Newport, RI, to Sydney, Nova Scotia; to Bermuda; and back to Newport as part of the U.S.S. Intrepid (CVA 11) battle group.

My last four weeks were in engineering with two watches and normal work requiring 16-hour work days. Having no more sense than now, I went from my last watch to the crew’s movie in the Drone Anti-Submarine Helicopter (DASH) hangar – “DASH” was a weapon which did not last long. Sailors called it “CRASH” instead of “DASH.” But its hanger on the 01 level just aft of amidships was perfect for showing movies.

This night, I watched “The Quiet Man” for the first time. As I left the theater and traversed the torpedo deck, I walked to the port side and gazed at the full moon.

The ship was making 15 knots. The moon’s reflection cut a wide, rippling, reflective path straight to me. The boilers roared through the forward stack. The bow wave was white, curling from the side and swishing its whisper as the ship cut through the water. “Darken ship” allowed no lights except those for navigation. At least a billion stars blanketed the black sky.

The sea grabbed me. She came down that path from the full moon, wafted across the bow wave, and reached deep inside. I felt her grab my heart and take it away.

I have loved her in her fury of the winter Atlantic, when she tossed a 500-foot ship around like a cork, ripping off protruding metal like dandelion bristles, and tossing sailors around the ship like matchsticks. Her intense fury blanketed the sea surface with froth.

I have loved her in the doldrums of the South China Sea where not a breath of wind existed, and the sea surface was glass for a week. I saw my first “green flash” then.

In the summer of 1973, steaming in the operating areas off of Newport, Rhode Island, my father saw why I went to sea. My ship, the U.S.S. Luce (DLG 7), was undergoing a major inspection. My Commanding Officer learned of my father visiting and invited him to ride during our underway day.

As a lieutenant, I was the sea detail officer of the deck. My father was by my side as I had the “conn” while the ship stood out of Narragansett Bay. As soon as we reached the operating area, we went to 25 knots for rudder tests, rapidly shifting the rudder to max angles both ways. The commanding officer and I went into a frantic dance, running in opposite directions across the bridge to hang over each wing checking for small craft in the dramatic turns.

After the rudder tests, I took my father into the bowels of the ship to our anti-submarine warfare spaces. My father stood behind me as I directed prosecution of a submarine contact. In the darkened spaces with sonar pings resounding, he watched as we tracked the sub on our fire control screen and simulated firing a torpedo.

After lunch, we set general quarters and ran through engineering drills. Finally, we transited back to Newport.

With mooring complete, the captain gave my father a ship’s plaque. My wife and mother were waiting on the pier when we debarked from the ship’s quarterdeck. As we walked the brow to the pier, my father said to me, “Son, I understand why you would want to make this a career.”

I did. Somewhere in the latter stages of that career, I met a woman, a native of San Diego, and we got married. After a brief taste of being a Navy officer’s wife, she and I returned to San Diego for my “twilight” tour, the last four years on shore duty.

So now when I walk up our hill to raise and lower the flag, I look out to sea and check to see how many ships are pierside at the Naval Station.

And that, my friends, is why I made the Navy career and live in the Southwest corner, far from my home in Tennessee.

Lessons from a POW

This was one of my very first columns for The Lebanon Democrat. It is special to me because the man i wrote about here is very special to me. i wrote it right after the bad San Diego wildfires in 2007. Dave remains a wonderful, actually amazing man, and i am proud to call him my friend. For some reason last night while watching the woeful San Diego Padres lose again, something Dave said to me popped into my brain. Something Dave said during our time together or wrote in his book keeps popping into my head. That’s a good thing. If i remember correctly, this pop up was how his North Vietnam interrogators kept wanting to know where they kept all the cows, pigs, and chickens to feed the crew on an aircraft carrier. Regardless, i wanted you, in case you missed it before, learn a little bit about an American hero. If you want to learn more about his story, his book, The Ways We Choose: Lessons For Life From a POW’s Experience is available on Amazon, Barnes and Noble, and i believe you can still get one from his website, www.DaveCarey.com. If all else fails, contact me. We will get you one if you want it.

SAN DIEGO, CALIFORNIA – This past Monday, I left the cleanup from the San Diego fires and flew to Lake Tahoe, Nevada. It was not an escape. It was work. I was co-facilitating a team building workshop for a California police department with my friend, Dave Carey.

Dave is not your ordinary business associate. On August 31, 1967, Dave Carey’s A-4 was shot out from under him over North Vietnam. He spent five and a half years as a Prisoner of War (POW), most of the time in the infamous “Hanoi Hilton.”

Dave and I met in 1985 at the Naval Amphibious School in Coronado. We worked together for just shy of a year as I transitioned into Dave’s position as the head of leadership training for the West Coast and Pacific Rim. Together, we help create a two-day workshop on leadership excellence for senior Navy officers.

Dave retired. Four years later in 1989, I followed suit. After my initial dive into my new job as Mister Mom, I soon started to look for ways to generate income in the quiet hours.

After some discussion, Dave and I agreed I would write a book about his POW experience, or more accurately, about his motivational speeches concerning his experience. After completing the draft, we decided it really should be written in first person. The original draft is on my office bookshelf.

Eight years later, Dave holed up for three weeks and completed The Ways We Choose: Lessons For Life From a POW’s Experience.

Part of my approach to writing was generated from conversations with Dave. He and I were driving to another workshop about fifteen years ago when I asked him about what outcome did he expect the audience to have when he gave a speech.

Dave said he had expectations initially, but discovered his listeners made their own connections. Early on, Dave had completed a luncheon speech when a huge Texan came up to him, put his big arm around Dave’s shoulder and drawled, “Can I talk with you, Dave? I understood every word you said today. The fact of the matter is, in this life, we are all going to get shot down, and some of us more than once.”

I don’t know about you, but I’ve managed to get shot down several times. Dave’s book and his ideas have been significant guides to me as I have wandered through living. The book not only applies to San Diego, Lake Tahoe, and Middle Tennessee; it worked in the Hanoi over 40 years ago.

Dave’s book revolves around a question he is most frequently asked, which is, “How did you do that? How did you and the other POW’s get through that?” He maintains they did that in a similar way to how we get through our daily process of life and work.

Dave’s assessment of how he and his fellow POW’s made it through boils down to five factors:

  • We did what we had to do
  • We did our best
  • We chose to grow
  • We kept our sense of humor
  • We kept the faith
    • In ourselves
    • In each other
    • In our country
    • In God.

His anecdotes relating to those factors are humorous, inspiring, and thought provoking. I have had the wonderful opportunity to discuss these things in depth with Dave.

So I check myself against his factors almost daily. They have even become part of the value statements for my consulting group.

I will not ruin the book by parroting it here. However, I am particularly fond of Dave’s pointing out how the POW’s trusted each one of them would do the best they could, would resist the severe interrogations to their limit; recognizing each of them had their own limit levels.

I now try to consider folks I work with are doing the best they can do. This puts a whole different shape to the way I work with these people. Fewer rocks are thrown; fewer lines are drawn in the sand; fewer chips are put on shoulders.

I would encourage everyone to read’s Dave’s book. Your connections should be yours, not mine, not Dave’s. I know folks in Middle Tennessee also get shot down every once in a while.

i should note here that bit about my consulting group is no longer extant. i write. i used to drive ships. i gave up consulting when i got tired of trying to make people do the right thing. i still follow Dave’s advice.

Oh, the Places i Have Been

i wrote this column for The Lebanon Democrat in the summer of 2008. i still laugh when i think about the Subic Navy Base in the Philippines.

i laughed even harder when in a 1979, i watched the “Saturday Night Live” parody featuring John Belushi about a Navy recruiting commercial of those days. It started pretty much the same with inspiring music with the voice over stating “It’s not just a job, it’s an adventure.” The SNL skit showed a Navy ship and then zoomed in with Belushi and other actors in Navy dungarees on their knees cleaning a head, working in a steaming laundry, and chipping paint.

Then the camera zoomed out and the announcer regally intoned as he did in the real Navy ad, “Join the Navy and see the world.” Returning to the ship, the announcer proclaimed the latest in exotic ports: “Bayonne, New Jersey.”

There was a lot of truth in the parody, but i beg to differ. Of course, i was an officer and not subject to the menial labor the enlisted had to endure. But it was an adventure, often an arduous one, but an adventure. And i did get to see the world. Somewhere, someplace, some time, i posted either my retirement speech or a summary of the part where i listed all of the places the Navy allowed me to visit. In short, i covered a lot of the world. i did not got to Northern Europe , around South America, or all the way to either pole. But i got pretty much everywhere else.

Of all of them, Subic was closest to “Fiddler’s Green,” the mythical paradise for seaman. It was wild. It was wooly. Often, it was dangerous. But boy, was it fun. The column didn’t tell all of the tales of Olongapo. It wouldn’t be well accepted in a a small town local newspaper. But here is my recollection from ten years ago:

My Friday arrival in Lebanon and events of the previous week have produced significant and insignificant problems requiring my attention. After dealing with these problems, I need to step away for a few moments. So I have chosen to revisit the far side of the Pacific.

My Navy career sent me to many places. My shipboard stops also allowed me to see foreign ports from a vantage most travelers never experience.

Over 14 years at sea, I discovered some special places for me. Many have changed beyond recognition, but others have maintained certain aspects which can take me back to those adventures at sea.

Subic Bay

Subic Bay, Philippines is not the same. This U.S. Navy port was home away from home for several generations of sailors. Our presence was established after World War II, leading to the 1956 commissioning of the base. In 1959, the Navy ceded some land back to the Philippines. The town of Olongapo was born.

It was a bawdy, wild, and inexpensive sailor’s liberty port. The stories are wilder than most folks can imagine, and from what I saw, they are probably true.

One of my favorite stories about Subic and Olongapo concern my father. In 1975, Jimmy Jewell flew from Lebanon to Honolulu, joining around thirty other family members of the USS Anchorage (LSD 36) crew on our return to San Diego.

After standing out of Pearl Harbor, I was the officer of the deck (OOD) for the evening watch (8:00 p.m. until midnight). My father stood most of the watch with me.

I took the time to recount my travels: the South Vietnam evacuation, port visits to Manila: Sasebo, Japan; Okinawa; Hong Kong; Taiwan; Korea; and Johnson Atoll, a nuclear test site in the South Pacific.

I described loading and off loading Marines and equipment as well as the zig-zag route Anchorage took from Pearl to Vietnam, backtracking due to changing commands and typhoon avoidance.

At some point, my father asked me which port did the sailors like the most. I pointed out the sailors not only liked Subic the most, they were upset their time there had been limited.

He asked why they preferred Subic. I then described what went on in the legendary liberty port.

The Mariposa

I told him of how I would watch the crazy antics from the Mariposa (butterfly), an open air restaurant on Magsaysay, Olongapo’s main road. We watched a ribald comedy in real time. A painted tray hung on the wall which declared restaurant rules: “No shoe shine boys, No vendors, No street hookers allowed inside.”

When I delicately told my father of the carrying-on’s in Olongapo, he shook his head and did not believe sailors could like the place.

Then over the course of the five-day transit, Jimmy Jewell went around the ship talking to the crew. He asked them what they liked and disliked about the deployment.

Five days later as we were preparing for entry into San Diego Bay, my father and I were talking again as I stood watch.

“Son, I couldn’t believe you could be right about the sailors loving Subic,” he said, “But they sure do.”

Europe versus the Far East

Constantly, my wife and I discuss where we should vacation. She has lobbied for Europe where she traveled through three summers in the 1970’s. Although I too have spent time in Europe and the Mediterranean, I argue we should travel to the Western Pacific.

We have been to Europe several times. We both love Ireland, Paris, Monte Carlo, and Barcelona. Eventually we want to visit Europe again.

In 1988, Maureen went on a business trip to Taipei, Taiwan and spent a day in Hong Kong. Her short stay convinced her the Western Pacific would be a good place to visit. Five years later, we spent a week in Hong Kong on a group trip she earned through business. Hong Kong was even better than either of us anticipated.

Now we both hope to go back and visit Japan (not Tokyo, but Kobe, Kyoto and the island of Kyushu), Hong Kong again, Singapore, and Taiwan.

I am glad Subic Bay is no longer a U.S. Navy Base. It has been turned into a tourist mecca for the Philippines. I am glad my wife is not interested in going there. I definitely don’t want to revisit, especially with my wife.

-30-

An Evening with a Code Talker

My good friend Jimmy Nokes in a recent email to the 1962 graduates of Lebanon High School noted the passing of a code talker:

Samuel Tom Holiday a member of WWll Code Talkers recently passes away shortly after his 94th birthday.  He was a Marine who served in the South Pacific and helped in  many battles. He was one of less than 10 who still survive.  He will be buried in The Navajo Nation next to his wife. 
This group of Americans should always be remembered for their dedication and service to “their country”. 
Just wanted to pass this on.

In 2008, one of my earlier “Notes from the Southwest Corner” weekly columns for the 
Lebanon Democrat discussed my meeting a code talker. i think the column pretty well covers it. It certainly was one of the most delightful and interesting evenings i’ve had in my life. the drawing leans against the wall behind my desk.


An Original Code Talker

SAN DIEGO – The Navy sent me many places I would have never seen otherwise. I have always been grateful. “Join the Navy and see the world” was not an empty slogan.

One of the most unlikely places I visited was the New Mexico and Arizona desert, a long way from San Diego, Middle Tennessee, and the ocean.

My thoughts turned to this abnormality when I read an article in The San Diego Union-Tribune this past week. Members of the Kumeyaay tribe in San Diego County are attempting to save their native language from extinction.

My travels to the Navajo Nation also had a connection to Native American language. The Navajo language did not need to be saved. To the contrary, their language contributed to the United States winning World War II in the Pacific.

In the spring of 1989, my command, the Naval Amphibious School in Coronado, asked me to chaperone a trip through New Mexico, Arizona, Utah, and Nevada. The tour group consisted of approximately 25 foreign senior officers who were attending an amphibious planning course. The public relations tour was a ten-day whirlwind trip through the Navajo reservation of Four Corners, the Navajo reservation; the Grand Canyon; Brian Head, Utah; and Las Vegas. The farewell dinner to the Navajos in Window Rock, AZ, the capital of the Navajo nation, was by far my best time on the tour.

The Navajo Veterans of Foreign Wars sponsored the dinner. The speaker was the embattled Navajo council vice-president, Peter McDonald, who was eventually forced out of office and sent to prison for fraud and corruption. My special time was not the dinner or the speaker.

Being a chaperone, I waited until the foreign officers and the VFW members had found seats. When the organizers discovered no seats were left for me. they set up a card table and said someone would join me. Soon, the picture of noble warrior came to my table, accompanied by a young lady. He introduced himself as Carl Gorman.

As the meal was being served, this craggy faced man, long white hair pulled back and tied in a pony tail, made me feel comfortable. He spoke with when pride introducing his daughter, Zonnie Gorman, who was working for Amtrak.

Gorman, a member of the Black Sheep clan of Navajos, was an original Code Talker in World War II. This group of 29 Navajo Marine recruits created the code for radio communications in the Pacific theater from their native tongue. The language was not written and the Japanese could never break the code.

The Code Talkers grew to around 400 and their contributions were kept secret until the Vietnam War. They were finally honored through a congressional act in 2000 and all received the Gold Medal authorized by that act.

Gorman was not just a Code Talker. He also was an artist known for his depictions of life in Four Corners and a protector of Navajo history, lore, and culture. His son, R.C. Gorman, is an artist of equal stature in Southwestern art.

Carl Gorman projected a regal bearing. He talked energetically of his heritage and the Code Talkers. His anger at the white man’s prejudice against his people and himself was fervent without malice.

As we talked, he took his pen and began drawing on a scrap of notebook paper.

I wondered why he was not at the head table. Gorman spoke of how the VFW had refused to take a stand against questionable practices. I discovered later he had left the organization because of his ethical stance. Yet he was still held in the highest regard by the other VFW members.

He passionately railed against alcoholism, which had become a severe problem on the reservation. He pointed to the VFW members, many of whom were drinking heavily.

The evening was one of the most educational of my life. I left awed by Carl Gorman, or Kin-yah-onny beyeh, the Son of Towering House People.

The drawing on the scrap paper was completed at the end of the dinner. It depicted Navajo warriors on horseback. It was simple but haunting. He gave it to me.

In 1998, Carl Gorman passed away in Gallup, NM, at the age of 90.

I hope the Kumayaay can successfully reclaim their native tongue. It is rooted in Yuman, the root of dialects of Native Americans from this Southwest corner to Arizona.

Mr. Gorman would be proud of their efforts.

-30-

i thought i had written of my meeting Mr. Gorman and included a scan of his drawing. i gave my copy of Gorman’s book to someone who never returned it. i need to get another copy. It was intriguing. The Code Talkers gave an incredible service beyond the call of duty to our country even as they were being mistreated in the worst possible way. Carl Gorman was above that, and i suspect all the Code Talkers were of that ilk. The passing of Mr. Holliday is another marker of the great generation of all the Americans regardless of race, creed, or color remains a bright spot in our history. It is sad to see them go. i am not optimistic we will have another generation like that one again.

A Grave Situation

One of my favorite stories about Lebanon. Oh the unbridled energy i had, digging graves and mowing until knockoff, running to get in my uniform to play fast pitch softball for Texas Boot Company or American Legion baseball and doing it all again for four days in a row with Friday night off. In the column, i omitted that Mr. Martin, i think John, was the manager of the water plant out by the river on Hunter’s Point Pike. i also erred in my time of employment. i worked at the water works for about three weeks and then went to Cedar Grove in 1958. This column ran in The Lebanon Democrat in the winter of 2010. The son of Mr. Bill sent me an email. i am looking unsuccessfully thus far, but when i find it, i will add that information about this column and this post. 

SAN DIEGO – A story by J.R. Lind about vandalism in a Cedar Forest cemetery ran last week in The Democrat. The vandal’s motive for digging into a grave was unclear.

I thought of the Mel Brook’s movie, “Young Frankenstein,” as Gene Wilder and Marty Feldman dug in the graveyard for the body to become “Frankenstein.” I e-mailed J.R., “They were looking for a brain.”

The story also brought memories.

In 1958, I started summer work with the City of Lebanon. After several early assignments, I worked at the water works on Hunter’s Point Pike with Truman Garrett and Elmer Elkins.

The following summer I hoped to drive a bush hog tractor but was told I was too small. My big friends, Henry Harding, Charles “Fox” Dedman, and others were assigned the bush hogs. With a twist of logic I did not grasp, I went to Cedar Grove Cemetery.

In that era, digging graves was accomplished by hand. When not digging graves, mowing and trimming the 35 acres was the bulk of our work. The two permanent workers, “Mister Bill” and “Dub” (I apologize for not knowing their last names. I’m not sure I ever did) took me under wing. They were pleasant, interesting, and fun.

Mr. Mitchell “Bush” Babb, the manager, lived adjacent to the cemetery. He reputedly was the only one who knew the grave locations after a fire destroyed some cemetery records. I was impressed Mr. Babb. had played against Ty Cobb in the Tennessee-Alabama League before the Georgia Peach went on to fame in the majors.

Once I got over my queasiness, I found the cemetery interesting. I studied grave markers, especially the older ones.

The Mitchell-Smith monument was impressive. My father had told me about the huge granite slab’s (roughly four by six by eight feet) trip to its final resting spot. He was “seven or eight” when the monument arrived at the train depot where Shenandoah Mills now stands. He snuck away to watch part of the two-week process. After offloading from the flatbed, the monument was set on four wooden logs, roughly a foot square. The logs were slicked with “octagon” soap. The four horses or mules pulled the monument forward while the workers rotated the logs from back to front.

There were many other interesting stories I gathered from the markers.

Sonny Smithson, a seminary student at David Lipscomb joined me the next summer. His father was the preacher at the College Street Church of Christ when it was actually located on the corner of College Street and Gay Street. Ironically, the original city cemetery was located there and until the interred were relocated to Cedar Grove when it opened in 1846.

In 1962, our last summer, Sonny and I became efficient in cemetery work and learned about graves “sinking.” Some sunk immediately after the burial due to the dirt compacting. Others sunk later when the natural decay set in, especially in the older graves, some suddenly when an air pocket collapsed. We tread over the grounds without temerity.

One June day, Mr. Bill sent us to clear out an area in the northwest corner. As normal, we had gathered for the day’s work at the small stone building in the opposite corner..

With “lively lads” on our shoulders, we trekked across the cemetery on the shortest route: pretty much a straight line, walking over graves with no concern. I was in the lead. Just after I walked over a grave (we later determined the grave was created in 1923), I turned to say something to Sonny. As he stepped on the middle of the grave, one of those air pockets took the opportune moment to collapse. Sonny went down into the depression about two feet and turned ashen through a Tennessee summer tan. He cleared what seemed to be about six feet straight up. Before he hit the ground, we realized what had happened. But for a split second, graveyard ghost stories came rushing back to both of us.

Sonny left work early that summer to go back to the seminary. I am sure it had nothing to do with the sinking grave incident. I worked through the rest of the summer.

Now when I have to submit a resume or biographical summary, I include “gravedigger” as part of my experience. It has proven to separate me from the pack, and I always know when someone has read my input in its entirety.

Football, a Legacy Gone South

i’ve been posting all sorts of stuff about all sorts of things here on this website for some time now. That is me enjoying me, but i kept feeling like i was missing something that once was here. In case you haven’t noticed, i love to write. Consequently, i can just go bananas and forget some things i meant to always be a part of this column, like an extension of writing “Notes from the Southwest Corner” as a weekly column for The Lebanon Democrat just shy of ten years.

Then for the last several days, Tick Bryan’s post on the “If You Grew Up in Lebanon, You Remember…” of the Tastee  Freeze shop made me realize what has been missing here: memories of Lebanon, Tennessee.

An integral part of my memories, was, of course, four years at Castle Heights. Although i did okay in Academics and so-so in the military side (ironic, isn’t it?), my focus was on sports. Sports dominated my thoughts (okay, okay, girls were pretty high in those thoughts as well) from when i can remember until i realized i wasn’t going to play any sport at the intercollegiate level. Football was my driver. The below is a column, i wrote for The Democrat in 2008 about those memories about football and Lebanon.

Football, a Legacy Gone South

SAN DIEGO – On my second birthday, after my father returned from the war, my uncle, Alvin “Snooks” Hall, gave me a football. In my mother’s albums, there is a snapshot of me at four in my cowboy hat standing beside a little red wagon. In the middle of the wagon bed is the football.

Even though I played other sports, football was my passion. I played imaginary games in the yard. On Saturdays, I could hear the Castle Heights announcer calling the Saturday afternoon games. I was Doak Walker, the Heisman award winner from Southern Methodist University; the triple threat star Bob Waterfield of the Los Angeles Rams, who was also married to Jane Russell (my aspirations were high); and Bobby Lane, the feisty quarterback of the Pittsburgh Steelers.

My father took me to the Lebanon High games at the juncture of Fairfield Avenue, South Greenwood Street, and East High Street, urging me to scream the entire game.

We would watch the Sunday games on the black and white television. Red Grange, the “Galloping Ghost.” announced the games. On the radio, I listened to the Commodores and the Vols as well as the Tennessee Tech and Middle Tennessee Thanksgiving games. Occasionally, we would go to Nashville and watch Vanderbilt play at Dudley Field.

At Lebanon Junior High, I played two years with one loss in 16 games. It was my acme in football. but I continued to play with some notoriety as “Mighty Mouse” at Castle Heights (Mike Dixon, The Cavalier sports editor gave me that moniker) while my friends were having the Blue Devil magic undefeated season in 1961.

As a junior, five-six, 135 pounds, I incongruously played blocking back and linebacker. We traveled to Baylor, just outside of Chattanooga for an afternoon game. My aunt and uncle, who lived there, arrived at half-time. I suspect Coach Jimmy Allen saw them waving to me. Regardless, I was sent in on defense in the third quarter.

A signal from the sidelines directed us from our normal “6-2” defense into a “7-1” alignment, seven down linemen and one linebacker. Using the same reasoning which got me in trouble most of my life, I volunteered and stepped into a defensive guard position.

I split their right guard and tackle. Both were all-conference for two years. The guard weighed 240 pounds, the tackle topped off at 265.

I think I saw the quarterback licking his lips. As he called an audible, I rationally concluded they were going to run straight at me, deciding my only chance was to “submarine.” That meant I would dive low and hopefully split through the two mammoths in front of me.

Good idea. Unfortunately, the two giants in front of me also figured that out. They double- flopped on me, trapping me under more than 500 pounds of flesh and gear. I was spread eagle on the ground.

I squirmed and waved my arms as much as I could to breathe and to get the lummoxes off.

The halfback cut next to the massive pile with this puny linebacker underneath. As he cut, he tripped over my frantically waving left hand, falling forward for a one-yard gain.

As I retreated to the sideline, teammates pounded me on the back. Reaching the sideline, Coach Frank North rubbed my helmet. I could see my aunt and uncle smiling and cheering.

I thought, “If they only knew…but I won’t tell them.”

Yesterday, the San Diego Chargers played the Indianapolis Colts. As I write, the game has yet to be played. Amidst the hoopla, gauntlet of commercials, and incessant inane analysis, there will be some good football played.

The playoff game was in a dome, filled with fanatic, costumed crazies whooping as much to get on camera as to root for their team. The majority of the players far outweighed the two behemoths who flattened me 47 years ago. There will be more coaches and staff for each team than the players we had on the 1960 Tigers. The game was played in mid-January.

I will think how much more fun it was to get crunched by offensive linemen on a  perfect autumn afternoon with a sparse crowd in Tennessee than it will have been watching the NFL extravaganza.

Of course, I will watch. Somewhere in the course of the game, I will think, “If they only knew…but I won’t tell them.”